


Keep Breathing

by astolat



Series: POI works [28]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Blindfolded, Breathing, Community: Meme of Interest, Kink Meme, M/M, Voice Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-10
Updated: 2013-08-10
Packaged: 2017-12-23 01:36:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/920456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astolat/pseuds/astolat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He came to in the trunk of the car, wrists zip-tied behind his back, sack tied over his head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keep Breathing

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Дыши/Keep Breathing by Astolat](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1758677) by [burnyourheart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/burnyourheart/pseuds/burnyourheart)



> For [an anon meme-of-interest prompt](http://meme-of-interest.dreamwidth.org/1507.html?thread=354019#cmt354019)!

He came to in the trunk of the car, wrists zip-tied behind his back, sack tied over his head. The wheels were crunching to a halt on a dirt road. A few moments later, the guys opened the trunk and dumped him out and into a hole dug out of soft dirt: a grave. 

The sack was close and dark around his head, hot and stinking of gun oil. The fabric was glued to his forehead with sweat, and he could feel the dirt pressing against his face on the other side. He managed to turn himself over and drag short breaths in through his nostrils. He worked his mouth against the duct tape, but it was tight. 

The three of them were having an argument up above over whether to risk killing a cop: they'd found the badge in his pockets. Reese worked his hands back and forth uselessly against the zip-ties, flexing his shoulders, more to give himself the illusion of doing something than to really escape. The sun was beating down on him and claustrophobia was scrabbling at the back of his head, trying to get in. The argument might get decided for them. It was getting harder to breathe with every minute. He couldn't stop the hyperventilating. 

The earpiece crackled to life in his ear. "John, if you can hear me, I'm on the way," Harold said, his low voice steady and calm. John made a wordless noise of protest behind the duct tape, but tension slid out of his shoulders anyway, involuntarily, and he was able to pull in a long slow breath, little by little, and let it out again. "Good," Harold said. "Just hold on. I'm close." 

He fell silent. John closed his eyes behind the sacking. He took another breath. He could hear the car Harold was driving, the sound of the road, the engine roaring, but his hands were in the dirt, tied, and the cloth was still pressing in on him, trying to cover his nostrils. Some of the dirt of the walls crumbled in on him, on his face. John made a noise, helpless to keep it in. 

"I'm coming," Harold said immediately. "Hold on. Just breathe, John. Breathe for me. I'll tell you when. Now." 

He didn't stop talking again, softly telling him, "Now," and "Now". John breathed when Harold told him to: long steady rhythmic breaths, his chest expanding, the world contracting. His whole body felt heavy and still and relaxed, a tingling spreading over the back of his skull, a pleasurable lightheadedness and Harold's voice in his ear, traveling through his whole body. He shivered abruptly, his whole body. 

"All right, John," Harold said. The engine had slowed, the noise of the car died. John heard Harold get out of the car. His voice was hushed. "I can see them and the car. Are you nearby? Once for yes, twice for no." 

John made a humming noise against the duct tape. He was floating, untouchable. 

"Are you under any cover?" Harold asked. "Where -- wait, I see it. You're in the pit?"

John made another affirming noise. "Just as well, I suppose," Harold said. "Give me a few minutes. Keep breathing." 

John kept breathing, kept floating. He wondered distantly what Harold was planning to -- 

The roar and thunder shook a shower of dirt down on him, and a wave of heat beat against his face; John turned into the wall of the grave as small burning bits of ash fell on him, small prickles of pain. He heard groans above, heavy thumps, and then Harold's voice above calling, "John!" and coming closer. John squirmed back over onto his back, waiting. "John," Harold said, scrambling down into the pit, and his hands were tugging on the sack, pulling it off, ripping away the duct tape, and John dragged in a long gulping breath of cool sweet air, his eyes watering. 

"Let's get you up," Harold was saying. The grave was narrow. Harold was kneeling over him. He pulled John up sitting and had to put his arms around him to get at the zip-ties with his pocket knife. John leaned in against him, head spinning even worse, and then his wrists were free and he kept leaning, his forehead pressed against Harold's shoulder -- the smooth light cotton of his summer suit, smelling of smoke, of the library, of Harold's body. Harold froze for a moment and then slowly, awkwardly put his arms back around him. John let his own arms go around Harold and shut his eyes and just breathed. 

#

Harold had trussed the bad guys up with their own zip-ties. He called Fusco and then drove John back to his apartment. He stopped just in front of the front door, both hands on the steering wheel and staring straight ahead. "Are you all right?" he asked. 

"No," John said. He could take a lot of punishment, but everybody had limits. Harold parked illegally next to the hydrant. 

John jerked awake out of nightmares three times during the night, heart pounding, the dark around him close and smothering, his breath coming in quick gasps. Each time, Harold's hand was already resting on his wrist, lightly. The third one was the worst: he was back in Kazakhstan, hands on him pressing his face down hard, dirt clogging his mouth and his nostrils and his eyes, and after that one he couldn't fall asleep again. He lay on his back, his chest heaving for air, staring up at the ceiling. 

Next to him, Harold asked quietly, "Can I help?" 

"Talk to me," John rasped out.

After a moment, Harold began to recite, softly. "It was a threatening misty morning, but mild," he said, "We set off after dinner from Eusemere," and onward through a long slow walk in the countryside, daffodils and dinner, and little by little the hard bands around John's chest loosened up and let go. 

Harold finished, and the silence tried to close in again. John turned onto his side and looked at Harold's profile against the windows in the dark. Harold turned and looked over, his eyes large without his glasses. His face was as close as a lover's. "Should I keep going?" 

Yes was the easy way out; the safe way out. John swallowed. "Yes," he said. 

Harold looked at him and didn't say anything, and then he said softly, "John," and nothing more, because Harold never took the safe way out. John shut his eyes and in the dark remembered Jessica, saying, "Just ask me to wait," and he took a deep harsh breath and leaned over in the dark and kissed Harold, deep and sweet, and drew the breath out of his mouth.


End file.
